


a burning stillness

by Xirdneth



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dialogue Heavy, Hannibal isn't actually in it, Shamelessly Pretentious, all these guys ever do is talk about Hannibal he would love this, but Will and Bedelia talk At Length about Hannibal's feelings for Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:38:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: After Bedelia confirms Will’s suspicions about Hannibal’s feelings for him, it appears he is not quite satisfied with that alone, and returns for another therapy session. This time, to talk about the nature of Hannibal’s love for him.





	a burning stillness

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic I've ever wrote, and thus my first Hannibal fic I've ever completed, so please go gentle! Thanks to Raz (hongmunmu) for beta-ing the fic! Note, my memories regarding the timeline of S3 is somewhat murky, so there may be inaccuracies. You can find me on Tumblr @ bedannigram, too, if you're interested :)

**Il vero amore è una quiete accesa.**

**(The true love is a burning stillness.)**

 

_Giuseppe Ungaretti_

 

 

**W** ill finds himself on Bedelia du Maurier's doorstep, entirely unpleased with the fact. There's a certain magnetism that drags him to her door - to their  _ appointments _ \- that he can't bring himself to deny. He is finding it harder and harder to not succumb to certain magnetisms, he notes. He can only wonder what that may prophesize for the future. Best not to think about it too deeply—this is merely seeking out the company of the only other who has felt themselves drawn to the siren allure of Hannibal Lecter's monstrous nature. It is this alone, and not any other weakenings of his resolve. At least, that's what he soothes himself with.

            Bedelia does not wait for him by the door, nor open it expectantly; it simply waits for his knock. Really, she ought to just leave the door open for him; he is _always_ on time, and _never_ misses an appointment. Out of whimsy, he tests the handle, finding it give underneath his gentle push with a _click_. Unlocked. He hadn't really expected it to be so – it seemed entirely stupid of her to leave her door open – and the like-mindedness they share in this regard bothers him. Instead, he would let empathy take the fall for the similarity, rather than dwell on the fact he and Bedelia shared the same train of thought.

            Will steps through the threshold, into the maw of the dimly lit stretch of hallway. She will be waiting for him, eyes glazed in a manner not dissimilar to her drug-addled state back in Florence. She will not look at him until he sits. She will expect an answer, or some continuation of their prior conversation, the one he had so rudely left without answer:  _ Do you ache for him? _ With the way the echo clings to him now,  _ has  _ since she posed it, he knows that he won’t be able to avoid answering it today. Why he even came is beyond him, but he continues on regardless. Too late to turn back now.

            Hopefully she has poured him a drink. He’ll need it.

 

* * *

 

“ Shall we continue our last discussion?” she asks, voice smooth as honey and brittle as ice. It is not a question he can refuse. It would go against  _ both _ of their desires if he did, though he suspects that similar as their wants are, their reasonings differ starkly. The uncertainty lies not in her motives, but his own.

            “What else is there to talk about?”

            “The nature of his love.” Bedelia had had her glass in hand when he'd entered the room, the contents already half-drunk. The alcohol doesn't show on her face or in her voice - only along her lips, giving her champagne lipstick a glossy effect.

            Will settles into the chair, as relaxed as he can be when in the presence of someone he finds so grating, and takes his own glass. He makes no motion to drink – only observe as the amber liquid swirls around in its crystal nest. Scotch. Interesting choice. “I don't have much to say on that matter.”

            “You don't believe what he feels for you is love?”

            “You do?”

            “Yes.” The answer doesn't surprise him. Given how poetically she had waxed on about it before, it's likely she had given it some thought. The thought disturbs and intrigues him; he wonders if she had been waiting all these years to finally tell him as such, whether the words she speaks are her own or something Hannibal had told her when it was him in this position. Will doesn't dare ask. “In fact, I would go so far as to say he loves you in the truest and purest way.”

            At that, he snorts, eyebrows ascending near his hairline. “You call what he's done to me,”  _ what he continues to do to me, _ “ _ True love _ ? I can see you haven't had much experience with the subject.” A petty barb; one he punctuates with a sharp sip of scotch. It scorches a raging path across his tongue and throat. 

            Bedelia, to her credit, glides right over the jab. “Why shouldn't I?” She inclines her head; hair like liquid gold spilling over the slope of her shoulder, glimmering in the firelight. “What he feels for you is indeed love,  _ pure _ , all-devouring love. If one dares to do so, one could compare it to the love of God.”

            “Perhaps he really has manipulated you more than I initially suspected.” The words snarl in his mouth, as vile as the liquor. “For you to compare him to God.”

            She smiles thinly. “I'm glad you are finally seeing the light.” He scoffs a laugh, half-irate, half-amused by her dedication to the role. At least she makes for entertaining company. “Why do you insist that his love for you is anything but pure?”

            A mirthless twitch twists Will’s mouth into a sardonic smile, gaze escaping the scrutiny of hers to focus on the abyss of the ceiling above. “ _ True love _ ,” he drawls mockingly, before returning to his usual tone, “Isn't supposed to be dangerous. It's supposed to be safe.” He thinks of Molly; soft, warm Molly with her sunlit smiles and sparkling eyes, the way her cheeks and nose flushed rosy when she's embarrassed. How gently she handles him, fingers practically feathers whenever they touch him. She is all tenderness, with none of the violence that Hannibal's particular brand of tenderness wrought.  _ That _ should be true love.

            “On the contrary. Purity is never safe.”

            Silence buzzes in his mouth, awaiting words to form. None come. To fill the void, he takes another sip of scotch, content to let her drown in the honey of her voice. She won't mind. He imagines she quite likes the sound of it. The only true response he gives is once his glass rests against the expanse of his thigh, wedding ring letting out a tinny sound as it descends, prompting her to continue with only a quirk of his brow.

            “Alcohol, for example, is only safe to be consumed in tiny increments, diluted by other flavours and ingredients. One could compare love to it, in that sense: it must be balanced by something other than itself, lest it overwhelm you.”

            Another snort. “Comparing love to alcohol? How pedestrian of you, Bedelia. I'm disappointed. I had expected something a little more original.”

            When he brings his eyes as close to hers as he can bear, he sees nothing that would suggest insult; if she is bothered by his barb, she makes no show of it. Sharp eyes. Hard jaw. As if sculpted from ice and layered with gold. “I'm flattered you think such commentary is beneath me, but cliches are oft cliches for a reason. Why do you think the comparison is so common?”

            Will rolls his eyes, questioning the heavens as to why he had thought it a wise idea to come back here. They do not answer. They never will. “People believe love and alcohol - or drugs in general, really - have similar effects. Addictive qualities. Lows. Highs.”

            Bedelia drinks as he speaks, and he has to admire her expressive restraint in this regard: the scotch is powerful, yet she is unflinching as she swallows it down. Not an iota of a reaction. “Is that what  _ you _ believe?”

            A singular note of laughter—more of a  _ huff _ than anything—escapes his lips at that, devoid of humour. He refuses to meet her eyes, deciding instead to focus his attention on the slope of her nose; the angular curve of her cheekbone; the arch of her pristine brow. “I believe that the majority of people who make the comparison have no experience with drugs.” He regards her for a moment, sees something glint in her eyes from the corner of his own. “What do you believe?”

            “I believe it is a decent comparison, although the nature of my comparison differs slightly.” Will is silent; waiting. “I believe that love is a poison.”

            “I had no idea you were such a romantic.” 

            Bedelia exhales a laugh, much like he had previously. “There are many things you don't know about me, Mr. Graham.”

            “Give it time.”

            The room is heavy with silence; he takes his time to run his eyes along the expanse of her home office, eating the scenery with his eyes. Was it here that Hannibal had sat with Bedelia, in the same role he takes now? Hard to imagine Hannibal as a patient in the psychiatrist-patient dynamic. Likely as unorthodox in that role as the opposite, given the fact he ran off with his psychiatrist to Italy.

            Will swallows the realization that he had been dangerously close to pursuing the same exact thing. When he doesn’t speak, Bedelia continues.

            “You, most of all, must understand why I consider love to be such a thing.”

            “But not because of my empathy.”

            “Not quite, no.” There's something that  _ could _ be a smile upon her mouth, but it’s so small that it’s hard to tell. Whatever it is, it doesn't reach her eyes.

            His body stiffens; muscles rigid, poised, an animal caught in the headlights of her eyes: they glint, faerie-like in the light.  _ Fight or flight? _ His jaw locks, teeth grinding against their twins. Unwilling to look into those witch-eyes – it is all too clear why Hannibal had found her worthy of his presence and his allyship, which only makes it harder to look – Will focuses his stare on the window, how the day turns to evening in a gradient of colour. Nothing can be deciphered beyond a hint of the passing time through the material of her curtains, so he allows his imagination to let him see the sky's transformation in his mind's eye, as some form of reprieve from this conversation. The downy, powdery blues with their bruise clouds scudding along like tendrils of smoke; the sudden onset of sundown as the heavens erupt into oranges and reds and pinks, the sun's gold blood spilling as it melts into the horizon; the comedown of soothing purples and indigos, before the finality of darkness – speckled with stars, if lucky. The wide, all seeing eye of the moon, if luckier.

            Bedelia notices his escape - of course she does - but says nothing; only drinks. He mirrors without thought, the sharp bite of liquor snapping him out of his reverie. The scotch has burned away all hesitance, and he finally voices: “Because he loves me.”

            He is thankful that she continues as if their conversation had been uninterrupted. “Yes.”

            “You believe his love is poison,” he says, regarding her carefully. He keeps his tone balanced.

            “You don't?” The fine, golden curve of Bedelia’s brow ascends near her hairline, where the immaculate strands of hair have found themselves somewhat displaced. Enough so to give her a look of relaxed disarray, without shattering her image of classic, almost regal beauty. Combined with the flush of colour the alcohol gives her, she certainly looks beautiful. Perhaps she is comparable to sirens, with their beauty and their teeth.

            “Answer the question.”

            “I wasn't aware there was one.” A glint of amusement in her eyes. Under the weight of Will’s stare, she continues, but not without draining her glass of its contents. “I believe his love is something that nobody was meant to bear. Something nobody  _ could _ bear.” She pours herself another glass; makes no move to see if he needs a refill.  _ Terribly rude _ . “Except you.” A punch of a statement, punctuated with a casual sip of her drink.

            “I'd argue everything that has happened disagrees with you,” he says grimly, staring into the dregs of his scotch.

            “On the contrary, I believe it reaffirms it. You're still here, aren't you?”

            The dregs dance in the stage of the glass, swirling around in a never ending Ouroboros of amber. Will swallows it down, feels it snake down his throat with a fiery path in its wake; it’s as ruthless as before, but he is slowly adapting to it. Perhaps Bedelia's comparison isn't so pedestrian after all. 

            “Love isn't supposed to hurt you.” A pause, as he settles the glass on his thigh. “Not like this.” He thinks of the scar stretching wide across his stomach (Hannibal's smile permanently etched onto his skin); the ghost of a cut along his forehead where the bonesaw had bit, the phantom that only he and Jack see; the aging bullet-holes in his shoulders where Jack and Chiyoh had acted as agents of Hannibal's will, unaware or not. The gutting scar bothers him the most, perhaps due to how little it bothers him now. In a strange way, he is attached to it. All too often his memories regarding the night of the gutting focus more on the tenderness of Hannibal's embrace than the searing bite of the knife. Too often his fingers have found themselves brushing along its raised edge, almost wistful. Almost affectionately.

            The thought doesn't disgust him as much as it ought to, and that in itself disgusts him.

            “You acknowledge, in some degree, that love inflicts some form of hurt,” Bedelia notes, regarding his addendum. He gives the barest nod. Of course love has its hurts; it always does, even in its simplest shape. “Every love is unique. One of the few truly unique things there is, if not the only. Why should the pain that accompanies it be any less so? Love and pain walk hand in hand, and they walk as equals.”

            “So this, to you, is  _ normal _ ?” The amusement at her audacity snarls Will’s mouth into the parody of a smile.

            “What you and Hannibal share is profoundly  _ ab _ normal. I am merely pointing out that the hurt you inflict on one another is bound to be equally so.”

            Her choice of words cuts deeper than a linoleum knife to the belly. It seems that in the absence of his answer in their last appointment, she had merely came to her own conclusions and decided that it was—is— mutual. He doesn't have the energy to argue with her about that particular detail, not when there is so much else he has issue with.

            Or so he tells himself, anyway.

            “The hurt we inflict on one another is far from equal.”

            “Subjective.”

            At that, he can't help but arch his brow. Disbelief. “Do you really think anything I have done to him equals what he has done to me?”

            “Do you?”

            “ _ No _ ,” he snaps. Bedelia is unfazed by the sharpness - really, she seems satisfied. He probably fulfilled her expectations. Will’s knuckles whiten around his glass, around the curve of his knee. “Obviously not.”

            “I imagine Hannibal would disagree. Perhaps many others would take your side. That is the whole meaning of  _ subjective _ . There is no objectivity when it comes to emotion, least of all regarding love and pain.”

            “Whose side are you on?”

            Her eyes flash. “My own. However, that does not mean I believe that what you have endured at his hand is deserved. Or that what you have inflicted upon him is  _ un _ deserved.” 

            Will relaxes at that admission, having been unaware of how tightly his muscles had coiled with tension in the first place. The half-empty bottle of scotch calls to him, but he restrains himself. There is enough fire inside of him. God knows he doesn't want to get drunk in her company. Bedelia doesn't seem to share the same qualms, and gorges herself on her liquor freely.  _ Her tolerance must be incredible _ .

            “Do not take this to mean I believe you to be innocent.” The minute tilt of her head, each movement elegant, controlled; almost like Hannibal, but not quite. She refuses to infuse her actions with warmth, even if artificial. “Or powerless.”

            “I disagree,” he says with a sort of morbid humour, “about the last part.” He knows he isn't innocent;  _ feels _ like he isn't innocent. He had meant it, in Florence: each murder of Hannibal's, whether before or after or entirely Other, hangs above his head like a glinting guillotine. He thinks of Abigail, with her throat in a smile, of Beverly split like an anatomical diagram, of the Heart stabbed thrice in what was perhaps the only way Hannibal could truly express his simultaneous grief, heartbreak, gradual acceptance and the harbinger of his (brutal) forgiveness. What especially underlines his guilt is how poignant he had found it, how gut-wrenchingly touching the gift had been. Where his stomach should have lurched with nausea—and it had, though not entirely out of disgust (certainly not at Hannibal, in any case)--his heart climbed into his throat, as if trying to meet its kin. “I  _ feel _ powerless.” The admission comes as a surprise to him even as it tumbles out of his mouth. Vulnerability around Jack, Alana, even ( _ especially _ ) Hannibal is one thing – but this? Bedelia strikes him as a vixen with the hunger of a wolf, lying in wait for his rabbit-hearted cries so that she may sink his teeth into him.

_ Not if I get you first. _

            “Are you really that blind?” It's genuinely curious, though it cuts like a blade. “You inspire something in Hannibal that no other –  _ living  _ – being could hope to inspire. For you, and you alone, he is weak. Wouldn't you call that power?”

            “I'm not the only one he loves, or has loved,” he argues, but finds his mouth increasingly dry. His prior arguments against further consumption of alcohol are crumbling quick, and he finds himself lusting for the vicious kiss of scotch. He restrains, though his fingers twitch around their glass, against his knee. She misses nothing. “Maybe more-so than others, but not the only one.”

            “Perhaps. But it is not only love you inspire in him.”

            “What else do I inspire?” Words are losing shape in their mouth, becoming increasingly throatier. He blames it on the growing thirst, on the lack of saliva wetting his tongue.

            “Devotion.” She takes a withering sip, her eyes glazed with alcohol or fear or something else entirely. The sip becomes a gulp, becomes a drain. “Isn't that terrifying?”


End file.
